Lighted up by stalactites;
 But the portal of the grave,
Where a world of new delights
 Will make thy best glories seem
 But a dim and noonday gleam
 From the shadow of a dream!

Peace! the abyss is wreathed with scorn
At your presumption, atom-born!
 What is heaven? and what are ye
Who its brief expanse inherit?
 What are suns and spheres which flee
With the instinct of that spirit
 Of which ye are but a part?
 Drops which Nature’s mighty heart
 Drives through thinnest veins. Depart!

What is heaven? a globe of dew,